


A Very Big Sneeze on a Very Little Satellite

by Missy



Category: Mystery Science Theater 3000
Genre: Family, Gen, Humor, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:35:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2846330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy/pseuds/Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joel manages to come down with the chicken pox and the bots try to nurse him back to health with varying degrees of success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Very Big Sneeze on a Very Little Satellite

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elf (Elfwreck)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfwreck/gifts).



It was just another beautiful day on the Satellite of Love. Space stations orbited by lazily, stars shot through the sky, trailing milky streaks in their wake. It seemed infinite and glorious, the black void of space, and filled with more mysteries than there were bad movies hidden in the bowels of AIP’s vaults.

 

Thousands of satellites and ships joined the orbital waltz taking place in the depths of the star-spangled blackness, and inside that bone-shaped, calamity-filled ship called the Satellite of Love, Joel Robinson had a bad case of chicken pox.

 

He couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to contract it in space, but contract it he had – and violently. He was bright red at the moment, with calamine lotion spots dotted upon his face irregularly, and he had a low-grade fever, body aches and a slight cough on top of it all. Huddling under the blanket, he still managed to have energy enough left to fend off his robot as it tried to heal him.

 

“But Joel, I need to open up the back of your head and drain out your intake valve!” Crow said. He was wearing a doctor’s outfit, and Joel, bone-tired as he was, couldn’t force himself to ask just how he’d found the material to make it.

 

“No, Crow, honey,” sighed Joel. “I don’t think you should really do that.”

 

“But but why not?” Crow wondered.

 

“Well, first of all I really don’t need to have my crude oil drained. Because I don’t have any oil in me, ‘cept for the kind that’s in my skin, and getting rid of that won’t really get rid of my chicken pox,” said Joel.

 

Crow made a sound of frustration. “But Joel! Whenever my tummy hurts you always open up my belly and drain my collection bowl into the loadpan bay!”

 

Joel sighed. “That’s awful nice of you to remember, but golly gee, I’m no robot!” 

 

“Psht! Since when has that stopped modern medicine from stepping in and trying to fix stuff. Now hold still! It’s time for your castor oil and calamine omelets and Tom will read you your stories.”

 

“But I don’t WANT a castor oil omelet!” Joel protested. Those pleas fell on deaf ears as Crow dashed about the console, trying to pour the oil with his barely-animate limbs. 

 

“Is it my turn?” Tom asked from stage left.

 

“Huh? Oh sure!” Crow then called, “hey Gyps! Do you have an enema bottle and a muskyleaf?”

 

At that point Tom zoomed into Joel’s line of vision. The little red robot was sporting a darling nurse’s outfit and carrying what looked like a very large saw as well as a big book of fairytales. “Are you ready for your story, Joel?”

“That’s sweet of you Tommy, but I think I’m a little old for stories nowadays.”

“Why, nonsense! Nobody’s too old for stories, Joel! Especially magical stories about penguins and adorable kittens falling in love at the North Pole.”

“I’ve never heard of that,” said Joel. “Where did you get that from?”

“Why, my memory sequencers made sweet love to my random processors. It’s simple, ANY robot could do it….”

“All right, Tom, why don’t you give it a read?”

“All righty!” Tom cleared his throat, and then dramatically recited, “C dos run. Run dos run. Run run run…”

A groan exited Joel’s lungs. “Tom, that’s basic dos code, I think you’re confusing your main programming sequencer with your memory circuits!” 

“Nooope, this is definitely the right recital!” Tom insisted stubbornly, and then continued. “Backslash, semicolon….period.”

Gypsy then arrived on the scene, carrying a tray of medicine in her mouth, a cute paper nurse’s hat perched upon her head. She carefully dropped the tray on the console beside Joel’s hand.

“Here’s your aspirin!” she sang. “Do you need me to fluff your pillow?”

“Aww, thanks Gyps,” said Joel. He sat up to give her room, and she instantly started beating the pillow into submission with her face. “Careful there, last time you tried to do that you lost your jaw.”

“Anything to make you feel better, Joel.” She bopped her head against the mound of pillows until they resembled something more fluffy.

“But that wouldn’t make me feel…oh, never mind,” sighed Joel. He picked up the aspirin bottle while Tom paged through his story. 

“Ah, here’s the right part!” Tom continued. “Batch convert to…”

“Gypsy,” Joel said, eyeing the bottle, “I think you brought me one Tom’s hilarious slinky treat cans instead of my medicine.”

“That was all that was in the bathroom,” Gypsy said. “If you want it go get it yourself.” She then turned and slithered from the scene, already bent on doing something much more productive in the engine room.

“Geeze Louise! Whatever happened to the manners I programmed into you guys?”Joel asked.

“Well, you did give us free will,” pointed out Tom.

“Yeah, and…” Joel opened the can and was promptly rewarded with a shower of confetti and a spring-loaded snake. One of them landed atop his head and nested comically across the span of his head. “Ugh, this is just great guys! I look like Rip Taylor’s worst nightmare!” 

“Or maybe his favorite fantasy!” suggested Tom. Crow, of course, felt the need to follow that statement up with a cartoonish, tigerish growl from somewhere a few feet behind him.

“Guys! Can we forget all about what Rip Taylor dreams about at night and can one of you please clean up this mess? I need to get some sleep in before the Mads call!” 

That was when Crow entered from the left, bearing a huge chainsaw and a wicked gleam in his eyes. There was a metallic grinding noise as its gears smoked to life. “Okay, Joel, just bend forward, grab your knees and kiss your pineal fluid goodbye!”

What could Joel say to that idea? “My bots. I think I’ll keep them,” came to him, a cough propelling him into the console and allowing him to send the feed into commercial.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore this fandom so very much, and your prompt sparked this idea to life pretty quickly for me - the 'bots would be the best worst at taking care of people ever. Hope you like!


End file.
